


Touch

by tiny_freakin_head



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Psychic Abilities, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, like unrepentant shameful fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-14 11:02:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16491323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiny_freakin_head/pseuds/tiny_freakin_head
Summary: Take off your gloves.Such a simple, reasonable request to make of a lover, a luxury Spy had never afforded any of his lovers. Had neverintendedto afford.





	Touch

_Take off your gloves._ Such a simple, reasonable request to make of a lover, a luxury Spy had never afforded any of his lovers. Had never _intended_ to afford. He rolled onto his side, back to Sniper but still pressed against the other man's body. Naked, except for the leather gloves he always wore. Oh, how he would have loved to stroke the rigid, slightly curved length of Sniper's cock on so many nights, to brace his bare hands on Sniper's thighs while he blew him—fuck, to just _hold_ him, with nothing between their skin…

Impossible. But he wanted it, in a way he never had before. With anyone. A yearning, coursing, burning, terrifying desire.

"What's the worst thing you've ever done?" he asked, voice deliberately flat and level, sliding one leg back and between Sniper's until his calf rested against the Australian's spent cock.

Sniper frowned. Their night had been going so well, for them. Spy didn't like to talk to him, and Sniper no longer fought him on that. At least he seemed to talk to Sniper more than he did with most people. But tonight they'd had good sex and to his surprise, Spy even seemed to want to stay with him through the night, which was rare. He hadn't gotten dressed the second he was steady on his feet and left, anyway.

"What do you mean?" He wasn't sure what Spy hoped to gain from this conversation. It wasn't what Sniper would consider pillow talk.

"Would you like me to tell you?"

"I…" Sniper's eyes narrowed. "I don't think I get what you mean, Spy."

Spy took off his watch, set it on top of his cigarette case, and pushed both farther away on Sniper's tiny dining table. "Without all of this, I still have an advantage over every spy in the world." He sighed, closing his eyes, then sat up fully and buried his face in his hands. His _gloved_ hands. "I'm sorry, it's been so long since I explained this to someone—voluntarily. I'm probably doing this all wrong. I know you think what you're asking for is simple, but it's not. It's not that I don't want you to see my hands. Don't want to touch you." He allowed his genuine hunger into his voice.

Lifting his head but still not looking at Sniper, he decided on a different strategy. "In your life, in your travels to the remotest corners of the Earth, you must have seen some strange things, mm? Things you couldn't explain?"

"Of course I have," Sniper agreed. He was still completely baffled as to what Spy was trying to tell him, but his hand automatically went to Spy's back when he buried his face in his hands, a comforting gesture. It sounded like Spy wanted to take off his gloves, which Sniper wanted. Oh, did he want it. But it didn't seem to be that simple, either. He'd gotten used to the feel of Spy's leather gloves on his skin, and Spy had never even suggested he might one day take them off.

Spy nibbled a loose bit of skin from his lip, arching back against Sniper's warm, rough hand. "I'm sorry for what I asked earlier, that wasn't fair of me. Something small. Yes." His eyes scoured the camper, but everything he saw was either too impersonal, too _personal,_ or he already knew its story and wouldn't be able to prove anything. Finally his gaze lit on what seemed like the perfect item—a dented old tin that still read _Coffee_ in extremely faded letters that Spy knew actually contained tea. Without speaking, he stood and peeled off just one of his gloves. Closing his eyes again, he touched the container with the tip of one finger, as though he expected it to burn him. He smiled, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "You stole this from your parents' house when you realized you were leaving home for real."

Sniper gave Spy a long, silent look, before nodding. He couldn't help staring at Spy's uncovered hand. He'd never seen his hands without gloves, and suddenly it seemed obvious why he hadn't. "That's why you always wear them." He sounded awed. "You're afraid of what you might find out if you touch me. If you touch _anything_."

Spy's hand curled into a defensive fist, nails biting into the leather of his glove until it creaked in protest but he didn't loosen his grip. He turned his body on Sniper, but then his whole body was shaking and the only place to sit down was the bed and Sniper just happened to be there, all warm and solid, so Spy leaned against him while he rode out the worst of it. He nodded at last, head hung low, feeling a deep, profound feeling of exhaustion and relief. He hated it. "You believe me?" he asked, barely above a whisper.

"I really don't think you'd find out where I got an old coffee can just to pull a stunt like this." Sniper wrapped an arm around Spy's chest, taking care not to touch his bare hand, even though he wanted to. It was funny, but now that he knew, it seemed almost obvious, the way Spy always seemed to know exactly what was needed, the careful way he'd seen him touch an enemy dispenser once, and those damn gloves. It worried Sniper. What would Spy learn about him? What was the worst thing he'd ever done? A few things came to him, but what would Spy think was the worst of it? Would he still want to be here after he touched Sniper?

That startled a snort out of Spy, and then he was laughing until his eyes watered. He shook his head, wrapping his—gloved—hand around Sniper's upper arm affectionately. "Non, mon beau, not even I am that devious. You're…it's just not the way I'm used to people reacting, I suppose. Not that I tell many people."

"I doubt this will surprise you, but I believe in…things like that," he admitted. It was considered a sort of shameful thing, to believe in magic and ghosts and such as an adult. He rarely admitted it to anyone, but that didn't stop him from believing. Sniper had seen some strange things in his life, and he firmly believed that not all of them could be explained.

Spy shook his head, leaning back against Sniper's chest. "It doesn't surprise me," he said, very softly, "but it is a relief." His gloved hand slowly slid higher and higher up Sniper's arm until it rested on the back of his neck. "What would I see, if I touched you?" He waved his bare hand dismissively. "I can guess at most of it—well, I got most of it handed to me in a file, to be honest—but there are probably things no one knows, that you wouldn't want anyone to know, mm?" He hated talking this much. It was one of the reasons he'd chosen Sniper as his lover.

Sniper gave a soft sigh. "I don't know if you'd care much about them, but I've done some things I regret, that I don't think I can ever make up for." Of course, the things he was most concerned about were things he didn't think would bother Spy. "I…I don't think much will change if you touch me."

That earned him a smile from Spy. "You know, I think you're right. I think I've known that for a while now, but didn't want to admit it. To myself." He closed his eyes and drew in a very long, slow breath before reaching around with his bare hand and resting it, lightly, just above Sniper's heart. Unexpected touches were the worst—with a little preparation, he could at least guide his ability a little, look for certain things rather than getting swept up in someone else's stream of consciousness—but he was also out of practice. For a moment he was drowning, flailing, utterly lost as memories not his own crashed over him, a blinding, maddening swirl of thoughts, images, sensations—sun-warmed fur beneath his fingers; a hot, writhing body beneath his own—but he slowly managed to take control, pushing aside inconsequential things, things he already knew or didn't care about, and moving to the heart of the matter: himself. According to his own personal ethics this was dodgy at best—he generally found it better practice not to investigate what other people thought of him too thoroughly, especially people he cared about. And he did, unfortunately, care about Sniper. So he couldn't resist. Sniper's conception of Spy—at least filtered through Spy's own mind—looked like a gazebo, sheer curtains billowing from every opening. It was set in the middle of an open field, and it didn't belong _at all,_ but at the same time he could admit it was in the perfect place. He could see a picnic set on an elaborate wooden table inside. He parted one of the curtains and stepped inside. What he saw shook him so badly he fell right out of Sniper's mind and slammed violently back into his own body.

"Oh. Oh, Sniper," he said, voice somewhere between horrified and softly scolding, as though he'd just caught his lover taking a shit on an expensive rug.

Sniper looked a little horrified. Spy had taken his hand away as though Sniper had burned him. What had he learned? "What?!"

The corners of Spy's lips began to twitch helplessly, even though he was still shocked by what he'd seen. He slid around so he could flop in Sniper's lap, both to make what he was about to say sound more playful, and because he didn't think he could fully support himself anymore. "You _love_ me," he said, sing-song and gently mocking. None of the rest of what he'd seen mattered, at least not right now. He could filter through the rest of it at his leisure, if he chose.

Sniper's face went red. "Well…yeah. Yes. I thought you woulda known."

"You…you just say it like that? Out in the open?" Spy asked tentatively, as though giving Sniper a second chance to redact his confession.

"I didn't really think you'd want me to say it," Sniper said softly. Spy had tried his best to make it clear that whatever they had here was casual.

Spy pulled off his second glove impulsively, grabbing one of Sniper's wrists in each hand, skimming the surface of Sniper's mind to _confirm_ what he knew in his heart was true. He closed his eyes and pulled his hands away, resting on his chest with his right thumb stroking his left hand soothingly. "Fuck."

Sniper had a sudden fear that this meant they were done, that Spy would leave. "We don't have to— I mean, we—" Sniper sighed. "Nothing has to change."

"No, you idiot. I just realized that I love you too."

"Oh." Sniper looked a little stunned. "Oh!" He leaned forwards and pulled Spy in for a kiss.

Spy kissed him back, letting his bare hands freely explore Sniper's face and chest for the first time. "'Oh,'" he teased, shaking his head once they'd withdrawn to breathe. "Is that the best you can come up with? Speaking of which—a gazebo? Really?"

"Gazebo?" He tilted his head slightly. "And what do you expect from me, poetry?" He grinned.

"It would be nice." Spy grinned back at him, batting his eyes. "But it is short notice, you're right."

Sniper decided that the gazebo mystery could remain a mystery for now, and he pressed back in for another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Soooooo we were watching The Haunting of Hill House on Netflix and I was saying that Theo reminded me of Spy, and my wife pointed out that Spy also always wears gloves, and then we immediately had to write this. Because that's how we do.


End file.
